“Raindrops and Tubesocks”
When I was a kid,
I enjoyed being outside in the rain.
Not directly, of course,
But, huddled in a doorway, or a shed.
Breathing dampy.
Listening to the regal pitter-pat of raindrops drumming on corrugated roofs, or the splintered plywood of makeshift forts.
Raw earth and drinking greenery would tickle my nostrils,
And car contrails of mist would space the distance according to the traffic tempo.
If you listened carefully, you would hear man-sized Tonka Trucks, pile-drivers, and the whistling sound of landing planes on final approach.
The safety of a semi-dry place during all of this,
Made me feel the good alone.
Defying nature, until it was time to return home.
When I peeled off my soiled Chuck Taylors from puddle stomping missteps.
My white socks would be ink black.
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